


Gib dem Teufel, was ihm zusteht

by AmputeeTrainee



Category: Hellsing
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, F/F, Gore, Nazis, Nudity, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-03-31 15:12:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3982774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmputeeTrainee/pseuds/AmputeeTrainee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She demanded to be let out, and in his infinite cruelty Samiel did—he did! And now, she was stuck with the master of the Devil. - Rip van Winkle "survives" and takes part in the final battle and beyond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ein tausend Augen

To a vampire, a lifetime stretched like a single day extending forever; mind and body lived in an eternal capsule of a moment, always. Perhaps she felt the length of time so because true sleep never came. Even when resting with eyes closed in a casket, the world never completely dimmed. She could always hear; a hunter constantly aware of her surroundings. Unable to tune out the world, she filled unbearable stretches of silence with cascading operas, the singing ricochet of bullets, and–as Rip van Winkle could hear now–the ceaseless ticking of a clock.

The tick, tick, ticking metronomic beat was both soothing and terrifying, for as long as Winkle could remember, she had rested with a clock in her coffin. The timepieces changed: a pocket watch at first, then a wristwatch, and she'd kept an electric alarm clock for a little while. Schrödinger had recently added to her collection, gifting her a pink battery operated clock. He said he'd taken it while scouting, couldn't remember why it had interested him any longer, and that the dumb, smiling face reminded him of her. Despite the insult, Winkle had kept the clock all the same, finding its face comical.

Time wasn't important to her Millennium comrades. Winkle supposed, though would never admit, that they were correct. The undead had no reason to fear the ticking of clock hands–not in the traditional sense anyway–for it did not etch wrinkles into their skin, gnarl their backs, or whiten their hair. For them, time affected little and meant even less. The Letzte Battalion continued on as it had for more than sixty years, working tirelessly toward the warfare they had so long been deprived.

Only the Major seemed to acknowledge her awareness of time passing. During briefings, he'd spare her newest clock a glance and give a wolfish, knowing grin because they both understood that the beat of time–whether in music or timepieces–signaled a countdown. With gleaming eyes, the Major would preach fervently about warfare's sweet approach. While she agreed with her Führer, the tick, tick, ticking created a dissonance of joy and fear within her. The Major promised her that along with their triumphant return, time's passing also heralded something wicked.

The constant ticking grew louder, echoing in the space of the casket. The beat seemed off, no longer in perfect time. Perhaps the battery was running out, stupid thing. Stretching, Winkle reached blindly for the timepiece, but her arm was snagged by thick, ropy liquid like a fly's wing caught in a spider's web.

Eyes opening, Winkle expected to see the black inside of a coffin. Instead, halos of red dotted the sky above like countless stars. Badly nearsighted, she squinted upward, but the glowing circles remained a blur without spectacles. Unnerved, she tried to move, but arms and legs were stuck as though caught in tar.

Starting to panic, Winkle glanced down to find swirling, vicious red drenching her frame in congealing webs of oozing crimson. Jaw falling open, Winkle slowly raised her head. A bleary, endless red sea stretched before her under an equally infinite, sinister sky.

Screaming at the sight, she struggled in earnest, but cries were cut short as a chorus of wailing–stirred by the piercing sounds of pure fright–rose like a chorus of the damned around her. Frantically whipping her head from side to side, Winkle found she wasn't alone.

In the ocean of red, shadowy bodies clawed to be free. Blurred limbs contorted as the crowd pushed against an inescapable crimson tide, trapped just as she was. A few held aloft weapons. She could make out the hazy gleam of metal in the distance slicing at the bloody sea, but the effort seemed fruitless. The liquid could not be wounded and metal clanged against metal instead, as the trapped were willing to hack at anything–even each other–should it mean a chance at freedom. The tick, tick, ticking had never been a clock at all.

"I'm in Hell," Winkle breathed. Fear fluttering in her chest, she thrashed against molten bonds and cried, "No! No!" Her voice rose above the others. Shrieking at the sky above, the red stars neared as she pleaded, "Let me go! Let me go! Let m–"

Screams died suddenly, throat clicking wordlessly in terror as hundreds–no, thousands of brilliant crimson lights came into focus. Winkle trembled as hellish apertures relentlessly gazed down.

"And why should I?" a deep voice rumbled.

"S-samiel," she croaked, barely audible.

Unblinking crimson eyes stared down at her just as they had when spilling like all-seeing fire from the cockpit of the Blackbird. The aircraft's suicidal nosedive into the Alder's deck still blazed in her mind. The taste of smoke and gunpowder lingered on her tongue, but so too did the tang of blood. Time was up. The Devil had won–just as the Major predicted–and collected his dues with the ferocity of a wolf.

"Begging is meaningless, why should I let you out? What makes you any different than the millions around you?" the demon pressed.

Even in the clutches of fear, Winkle considered the to broker a deal with the Devil wasn't a foreign idea, but it felt like surrender. Saw-like teeth gritted in disgust.

"I beg for nothing, I demand you let me out!" she spat venomously.

There was a pause before Samiel laughed darkly. The surrounding sea vibrated with each mocking cackle, sound resonating in the swell of her chest.

"Even stinking of fear you continue to fight."

"Mock me if you will, but I will not bow to you, release me this instant!" Winkle cried, tossing back her head to bare jigsaw fangs.

The Devil laughed again at the display, howling with pleasure now. The sea churned with each amused roar, quaking her stuck limbs.

"Oh you are delectable, far more entertaining than your devoured comrades," Samiel mused.

Scowling she promised, "Monster! You will regret this."

"I think not," he clipped, "empty threats frighten no one, only amuse. You belong to me."

"I will never-"

"Raise your right hand! Salute your new master," Samiel ordered gleefully.

At the command, her limb immediately shot upward, hand easily cutting through congealed liquid with new strength until it rose high above. Straight as an arrow, the flat hand raised in a red-stained mockery of a salute. Winkle gasped in shock, staring wide-eyed at her dripping hand.

"Talk Nazi to me, " demanded the Devil. "Hail your master's victory. "

Serrated teeth locked together in protest, muffling involuntary words.

"Louder, I can't hear you!"

"Sieg Heil!" She screamed at the glowing eyes in loathing, "Sieg Heil!"

Fury shook her frame as his laughter rang thunderously.

"Delicious."

"Fuck you!" she howled, struggling but unable to lower her arm.

The mocking cackle went on nastier than before.

"Yes, that's right, fight! Fight the impossible if you dare!"

Thrashing with abandon, Winkle tried to tear her body free from the sticky sea, jerking until red drenched shoulders and strings of bedraggled hair were yanked loose. Yet, Samiel was right. Try as she might, she couldn't fully pull herself out, much less wrench her arm down from it's ordered salute. As though in quicksand, Winkle sank despite her best effort.

"While I may not have crushed your mind, your body and soul belong to me. Hunter's keep what they kill, Obersturmführer, but you already know that," He reminded smoothly.

Though it pained her, Winkle knew he spoke the truth, and sharp nails stopped raking ribbons into disobedient flesh. Unwavering arm still raised, she knew now that meat could be sliced clean to the bone and the appendage wouldn't falter, not without being ordered too. The limb, though attached, no longer belonged to her. Just as the Major had foretold, those who were collected by Samiel were owned by him, doomed to be a slave to the Devil himself.

"Enough," he commanded.

Like cutting a puppet's string, Winkle's arm went lax and sank back into the red sea.

"If my carcass is your toy, why let me keep my wits?" she pressed.

"Where's the fun if you're as mindless as a ghoul?" he answered with a question. "Besides, I don't turn a deaf ear to my familiars. You wanted to be let out, and you've made quite the case."

"I've made no deals with you!"

"Actions speak louder than words, and it's time you paid your dues. Obersturmführer Winkle," he said as rich as velvet, "I will let you out."

Eyes closed in from above and a single pupil, larger than a dinner plate, distended from the sky until it gazed directly at her. Winkle ground sharp teeth and in the dilated sphere her monstrous reflection grimaced back. The eye did not stop its approach. When the jelly cornea brushed the tip of her nose Wrinkle shrieked in disgust and jerked away, but stuck fast in the congealed sea there was no escape. The orifice swallowed her, gummy lens easily giving way like gelatin, first engulfing the head then the rest of her body in midnight vitreous.

"Remember, you demanded this," Samiel's voice echoed in the liquid darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This story is for Andii who requested a fanfic about Rip van Winkle, Integra, and Zorin. I went totally, embarrassingly overboard and created an alternate ending for Hellsing Ultimate/manga: Rip van Winkle survives and I try to come with an explanation as to why. The first three chapters are pretty much the original ending with Winkle present. Nothing particularly groundbreaking. I had originally intended on finishing this prior to posting, but–as per usual–I got distracted with another story. I'm going to post what I have as I edit for people to enjoy and hopefully pick this back up later. There's some minor German in this fic. I did study the language but am very bad at it. If you see any mistakes–in English or German–please let me know. Thank you.  
> 2\. Title loosely translates to 'Give the Devil His Due'


	2. Blut wie Eisen

In red rivulets of blood, Rip van Winkle poured out of a slice in the Devil's side. She knew this because Samiel did; by the bond of master and servant, his thoughts became privy to her if he so chose. The shared nexus forged through blood and soul bound tighter than iron, the ultimate invasion. A parasite within her mind, he made her watch.

Through his eyes, she'd witnessed Samiel peeled open his coat and undershirt on the bow of the  _Adler_. After removing a white glove with pointed teeth, his naked hand had skimmed down pale skin before fingernails cut deeply across jutting ribs. Red had flowed in lazy tracks down his side. As blood began to soak into the hem of black pants, consciousness suddenly sparked.

Sickened to realize that she could not only see, but feel the slide of cold, dead blood over frigid skin, Winkle shivered and the streaming blood danced. Stopping it's oozing, the liquid quivered and gathered before racing in blacked clots down Samiel's side. Blood almost seemed to rip from the self-inflicted wound like strings as it pooled into a seeping ball on the  _Adler's_  deck. Trickling together, cool plasma slowly congealed into a crouching figure. On all fours like an animal, Winkle raised her dripping head.

"I hate you," the hole that was barely a mouth spat.

"I only did as you requested," Samiel reminded with a lazy smile then ordered. "Pull yourself together."

By their shared will weeping red stilled and formed into pale, speckled flesh. Winkle stood on lanky legs, head coming to the crest of Samiel's shoulder. The salty wind sent crimson coat tails whipping against her bare thighs as they saw each other. Through shared sight, Winkle was granted both perspectives: the hazy, flowing form of the Devil, and her piercingly clear, naked silhouette against the burning English skyline.

Samiel grinned sharply, madly. The raw wound at his side no longer hemorrhaged but remained open. Even with poor sight, Winkle spied stripes of stark white ribs peeking through the slice. Standing straight-backed and proud, she didn't flinch as the cloaked figure gazed heatedly at her.

There was no shame in her nudity because what remained of her lived like an ember, soul wrapped in Samiel's smothering essence. This faux body was rightfully his. Flesh of his flesh and blood of his blood, she was now made from the gore that had poured from his side–as Adam had begotten Eve. This was a perverse creation, for the Devil didn't use bone, but rather blood and damnation as building blocks. Although a physical form had been fashioned from plasma and will, a gaping hole still shone through the center of her chest, puncture illuminated by the blazing city behind.

A white, bleary hand reached out toward her and Winkle took a step back.

"Don't move," Samiel ordered.

Frozen in place, she had no choice but to allow the approach. Unable to move a hair's breadth, the tips of gloved fingers speared into her forehead unhindered. With the aid of his eyes, Winkle saw as he did and watched the skin of her forehead ripple like water as Samiel reached into the space that ought to have been her skull. Digits prodded numbly, pressure nothing more. She wondered if it was his control over her form that allowed fingers to pass into blood-made flesh like a hot knife through butter.

Without a word, the hand pulled free and her skin morphed back into place. Between index and middle finger, Samiel held aloft a tiny metal square in front her face–the F.R.E.A.K. chip. The hand squeezed into a tight fist, and the Doktor's invention was crushed into dust and released into the wind before her eyes. Winkle would have snarled at the brazen disrespect had she been able.

"At ease, " he directed.

Exhaling explosively, she let her long limbs shudder.

"With that nuisance gone, your current whereabouts are only known to me. You wanted out, and as a…gracious keeper–" he paused when she snorted at the distorted truth. Sharp smile curling pale lips, he continued, "I've allowed the privilege, but in return you will assist my master and I in killing those krauts you call comrades."

"I would never stoop–"

"You will with a smile," he ordered firmly, red eyes blazing, "right, Obersturmführer?

Winkle swallowed thickly, but couldn't have disagreed if she wanted to and barked, "Ja."

Giving a wicked smile, he closed his shirt and readjusted the flowing coat.

"Good, now silence, I must concentrate."

At the command, Winkle's lips began to fold in on themselves, knitting shut so tightly razor teeth almost pierced through soft flesh. Fingers ripped at her sealed mouth but failed to pry open her jaw. Throat working soundlessly, she clawed at her neck but was unable to utter even a whimper. Hands balling into angry fists, Winkle stomped her foot, but Samiel seemed to have lost interest, gaze focused on the burning island before them instead. Arms waving wildly, she hopped into his line of sight. Red eyes didn't even spare her a glance.

Huffing and drawing herself to her full height, Winkle punched Samiel in the shoulder with a solid thwack. The Devil barely moved, shoulder dipping back slightly. Red eyes finally glanced down boredly, as though inspecting a squashed insect on the bottom of a shoe. Boldly, she pointed to her lips.

"Direct and quick to fight," he noted evenly.

In a blur of movement, Samiel darted forward. Suddenly, Winkle felt as though a hot poker had lanced through the center of her breast. Legs buckling, she convulsed in mind-numbing pain but was held upright by the crimson forearm now penetrating her chest cavity.

"Yet you make such a poor punching bag," he continued, cold breath fanning her face.

Dead, black blood dribbled past sealed lips. The Devil raised his arm and she slid toward him, forced down by the weight of her body as though impaled on a pike. Toenails scraped against the wooden deck, trying desperately to find purchase to stand. Frantic hands tore at the invasive arm, but to no avail.

"But I suppose bait is meant to struggle, not win."

Finally, mercifully, he let her fall. Lowering his arm, Winkle crumpled onto the deck of the  _Adler_  as the bloody appendage wetly slithered free. Shaking, she curled in on herself and hugged thin arms around her weeping chest. The toe of a black shoe kicked her limbs away, another punt sent her sprawling onto her back. The Devil loomed ominously over her, but Winkle was too in shock to crawl away at his approach. Wracked with nauseating pain, she stared up at the grinning demon.

Foot raised high, the sole of his black shoe squelched as it stomped on the gaping hole in her chest. Blood bubbled past closed lips as Winkle thrashed beneath him. Although she gripped the bone of his ankle in a two-handed vise, he remained unmoved by her struggling. Only when Samiel seemingly grew bored of her squirming did he lift his foot enough to lessen the pain.

"Ask again," he prompted.

Blue eyes glared up furiously. Letting go of him, Winkle gestured to her lips with a sharp finger. When the demon made no move, she slapped her palm on the deck and jabbed a finger at her closed mouth again. He smiled at her miming, then slowly leaned his weight down on her ribs, sole pressing into the ragged hole. Blood spurted between sealed lips as Winkle writhed.

"Again," he declared.

When Samiel lifted his foot, Winkle shuddered and realized the torture would continue until the demon was satisfied. He was correct, she hadn't stood a chance against in him life. Capturing the  _Adler_  had been a trap, and no one considered the functionality of a snare after the beast was snagged. For glory, honor, and the pursuit of unending bloodshed, she'd sacrificed herself for the good of Millennium. And this, having the very beast she was meant to capture crush her underfoot, was her reward. The Major had been right, he always was, but for the first time she didn't like it. Eyes glowering at the leaning Devil, her hands pressed together in a silent plea before a single finger motioned to sealed, blood-stained lips.

"Speak."

Lips opened then and Winkle sucked in a ragged breath.

"Y-you expect me to go ashore naked and unarmed?" She bitterly wheezed.

Samiel laughed at her low and cruel, as though in on a joke she didn't understand.

"Then clothe yourself, fool. Summon your weapon! Were you a vampire or not?"

"But–"

"–But what?" he asked sharply with a sneer, red eyes boring into her own, "You're weak–amusing perhaps, but in the end you're no different than that legless, blonde idiot and armless card dealer. You Millennium trash are all alike, ignorant of your nature you play with blood and shadow but do not own it."

Looking away coldly, Samiel removed his foot. Without sparing another glance, he remained concentrated on the distant shoreline. Weakly, Winkle rolled to her hands and knees and scuttled out of reach. Unwilling to turn her back to the Devil, she crouched behind him and watched the crimson back with hateful eyes.

The way the fabric moved was unsettling, unreal. The coat billowed around him, sometimes with the sea wind, others seemingly of its own desire. Of course, Samiel wouldn't wear the clothes of a man. With command over thousands of souls, what couldn't such an amplified will achieve? She had been molded from his essence, the powers of darkness could produce horrible miracles, why not lesser ones?

Winkle considered his insults, power, and talk of blood and shadows. Although one of many servants, she was a part of him. Hooded eyes glanced down at the blackness beneath her crouched body cast by the fires ravaging the land.

"Do it," the demon's words rang through her head, "remember and make it be."

Reaching toward her shadow, a powerful desire began to swell in her chest. Summoned, the darkness surged to cover her. Sleek as silk, tendrils of black wound up pale arms and spilled down her back. Winkle thought of herself standing proud on the deck of the  _Adler_ , singing triumphantly after the successful capture of the ship. Tailored by will and memory, shadows solidified: exaggerating broad shoulders, tapering a slim waist, and covering teacup breasts. Standing tall once more, her androgynous figure cut against the night sky, clothed in the suit, shirt, tie and bluchers Winkle remembered prior to her death.

"Finally," he noted.

Though Samiel didn't turn, his shadow wavered. A coil of darkness flickered out from beneath him like a slingshot, causing something small and shiny to skid across the deck until it hit her foot. Bending down, Winkle retrieved a pair of cracked, round rim glasses and set them on the bridge of her nose.

Sight clear for the first time, Winkle saw the ravaged island before them, zeppelins dotting the sky above like giant clouds. Samiel had forced the ship so close of the mainland, they were at the mouth of the Thames now. So near to the battle, Winkle could feel the radiating heat from the fires. Though the distant screams of Englishmen and the ring of bullets carrying over the water stirred cinders of bloodlust within her, the warfare they were sailing toward didn't capture her attention quite like the mangled  _Aldler_ –her stolen prize.

The deformed mast rose like a twisted cross from the center of the ship. Warped steel girders and cables had been contorted together by tremendous strength into a grotesque T-shaped skeleton. Like mere decorations, discard weapons had been fused into the jumbled mass of metal. The claw-like arms of the nightmarish cross almost seemed to scrape across the dark heavens as the ship sailed up the black waters of the Thames.

Save for the two of them, not a soul stirred on the ghostly vessel. Troops dead, she could smell and taste their ashes before, but now the charred, empty remains of Waffen SS uniforms greeted her once more, laying abandoned in smoldering piles on the deck. Amid the ruins, a single red trail stood out on the ghastly ship. Eyes following the carnage, the path ended in a splatter on a cabin wall. There was no body, no uniform, only a long Jezail rifle impaled through the center of the sticky, crimson stain.

The  _Adler_  groaned and shuddered as it made landfall; hull cracked, it would sink by the riverside. Thrown by the collision, Winkle fell to her knees and scrambled to stand upright, ready to make a mad dash for the gun.

"Come to me," Samiel commanded.

Her feet came to a stop, skidding long streaks on the sooty deck. Limbs quaked, but try as she might Winkle could not take another step forward. Fingers twitched, itching to grasp the elegantly engraved handle she knew so well. Winkle threw a determined glare at the rifle but was forced by his will to turn away. Giving a cry of rage, she ripped at her long hair. Yet, much to the Samiel's smiling glee, her feet resolutely walked back to his side. He laughed once as she neared, eyeing the clumps of hair she'd shed in her misery, then leapt off the bow of the ship. Sticking her tongue out at the disappearing crimson back, Winkle jumped too and followed the Devil into a war zone.


	3. Der Krieg

The Devil leaped fearlessly into the thick of the battle with guns drawn, and Winkle followed. They landed in the center of a courtyard between the two armies. Rows of Papal Knights to the left and lines of the Letzte Batallion to the right stood like statues, seemingly mesmerized by their impending doom as the Devil grinned madly at them.

As a hush came over the battlefield, Samiel began to reveal himself for what he was. Coattails unfurling wide, a red flood poured free from his being. Cold, dead blood swept by Winkle’s ankles and calves as the crimson sea gushed and gathered across the paving stones. Figures began to emerge from the liquid, their dripping hands clawing at the sky and running faces howling in agony.

Suddenly, the deformed wave of bodies shot forward, arching almost to the face of Big Ben before crashing onto the courtyard. The crimson sea raged over the paving stones on the blood-made hooves of crying stallions and flowing legs of screaming men. There was hardly any time to react, and rows of soldiers and knights were swallowed by the rising tide until both sides were forced to recede. The wave dispersed as suddenly as it was birthed, leaving a wide, blood-slicked section of the courtyard clear. Calmly, the red-cloaked demon walked down the center of the square and Winkle begrudgingly trailed after.

Before they could take another step, a rapid flurry of pages rained from the sky. A scared-faced priest landed on his feet a few paces before them. Grinning crazily, Alexander Anderson raised his blonde head. Winkle recognized the man; the Major had mentioned their unconventional saviors and those in their ranks before. Samiel stopped. For the first time, the Devil seemed to take note of someone before him, as though deeming the Paladin worthy.

Suddenly, a blur of dark-green streaked over the heads of the Letzte Battalion, and Günsche landed in a predatory crouch before them. The three trump cards faced one another at last. Oh, she could almost hear the Major’s glee, certainly the Fuhrer had to be watching.

Standing straight, Günsche’s dull, cold eyes widened a fraction as he glimpsed her, as though seeing a ghost. Ex-comrades in arms, they stared at each other for a silent moment. Glancing at her chest, the flicker of surprise dimmed and he pointedly averted his gaze.

Eyebrows pinching, Winkle looked down. Dark blood spotted her shirtfront. The mortal chest wound couldn’t be hidden and was already seeping through. Head snapping up, she glared at him. Günsche didn’t notice, gaze fixed only on Samiel now-–the target. Gut churning, she realized he–-and probably the rest of Millennium’s upper ranks–-would never regard her as anything but a casualty. Her mission was complete, after all. Winkle felt as though she might be sick.

Without warning, a sharp voice rang out in the distance, “Restraint control technique number zero is open! Return! Thousands and ten of thousands of times–-return! Let them see!“

Winkle turned to see from where the command had come and saw a sharp, black-clad figure with golden hair streaming in the distance. Finger raised to the sky, the woman stood fearlessly in a cleared section of the courtyard and was flanked by another figure dressed in scarlet uniform–Integra Hellsing and Seras Victoria. She remembered them well from the Major’s briefings.

"I am the bird of Hermes. I devoured my own wings–!” Samiel chanted, but vows were cut short as the mad priest attacked. Streaks of silver shot through the air. One after the other, bayonets pierced through the Devil in a line, cutting down the center of his face like voodoo needles. As though working together, Günsche launched forward and took a sweeping kick at Samiel. Hit in the chest, the demon fell backward in a bloody, boneless spiral as he shouted, “And that’s how I was tamed!”

Blood poured free from every opening of Samiel’s coat until it consumed him and swallowed Winkle. Together, their bodies ran until flesh and cloth become blood and shadow once more, and they were swept away by the red tide, Winkle’s soul tugged after Alucard by his magnetic will.

Souls poured out once more, bursting forth and taking shape to attack. Through the shared link of blood, Winkle felt the brush of kindred spirits stream by, and so did the Devil. Distorted images burst unbidden across the canvas of her mind then as Samiel slithered into her thoughts. Through the awareness of her old comrades, the Devil cruelly let her see as they did.

Gushing past them, Alhambra and Luke surged free half-formed; arms, torsos, and faces morphing wildly in the churning blood. Their ferocity and confidence felt familiar, but not their silence. On the Devil’s command, the pair raised their bubbling arms. A blade distended in long, dripping steaks from Luke’s hand while cards fanned from Alhambra’s palms.

Grinning, the fallen Millennium members mindlessly slew Battalion and Temper alike with card and saber. Together, with frothing horses, knights, and pikemen, Alhambra and Luke pushed back the battle, forcing Günsche and the Paladin to retreat to the edge of the courtyard. Through their ears, Winkle heard Anderson shout as he realized the terrible truth, for the Devil wasn’t a single man, but many.

“Caldron as a million banners! The Army Janizaries! Even them, _even them_! That’s why you can’t die! Why you can’t be killed! How many lives are there you in? How many human lives have you swallowed?!” The sea of blood and souls nearly swept the courtyard clear, yet the priest carried on even as he withdrew, overcome by the knowledge. “You..you…your _own_ soldiers, your _own_ servants, your _own men_! Monster! What are you?! The Devil! _Dracula_!?”

Then, as foam does on the sea, her ex-comrades dispersed and were lost once more in the ocean of blood. Like a telegraph line being cut, their connection was severed, and she heard and saw nothing more through them. Still, the memory of Luke and Alhambra’s vacant eyes and smiles lingered, a reminder of what Samiel could do if he so chose--a mind wasn’t necessary to be part of the Devil’s army.

Winkle reformed beside Samiel at the opposite end of the courtyard near Hellsing and Seras. Even at this distance, the catholic’s curses carried far, her ears could clearly hear the Paladin’s horror. Although Günsche and Anderson had withdrawn, they were coming toward them again, stalking across the blood-slicked stone with their respective armies following a few paces behind. At their approach, the Devil didn’t unleash himself fully, nor did he let loose another torrent of blood.

“My Master, Sir Integra Hellsing!” Samiel cried as the armies approached like a swarm,“Your order! I’m your faithful servant Vampire Alucard! Give me an order!”

With absolute certainty, Sir Helling addressed her demon, “Alucard, take heed. Here are your orders. With your silver gun, paint the white army crimson. With your iron gun, paint the black army scarlet. I will know my foes by the stains of red you leave upon their chests! Now, search and destroy! _SEARCH AND DESTROY_! Run them down! Do not let any of them leave this island alive!”

A shiver ran down Samiel’s spine at the order as a throaty groan escaped him. Winkle stared at the woman, fanged mouth agape. Though Hellsing was a measly human, she commanded her champion–no, weapon with the fury of a Valkyrie.

“Yes, as you wish, my master,” Samiel answered with pleasure.

The blood that lay across the courtyard tremored. Before the ripples reached the priest, a vortex of pages surrounded him, and the man vanished. Pushing off the ground on all fours like a beast, Günsche leaped high over his soldiers and disappeared behind the Letzte Battalion lines. Once again, the pair’s attack had been halted, having sensed the unease that filled the courtyard. Too distracted by the quivering blood beneath their feet, the Templar and Letzte Bataillon didn’t follow their superior’s lead.

By the time the liquid began to rise like needle-points, escape was impossible. Suddenly, the points of blood shot upward like a thousand pikes, impaling the soldiers of both armies. As the spikes grew meter by meter, the bodies were raised high above the courtyard. Fresh life-blood ran down plasma-made pikes and mingled together. Screams turned to gurgles and then to silence.

Mutely, a handful of survivors squirmed like pinned insects as their life was drained. A few of the remaining Letzte Battalion recognized her, able to clearly see her now that they were elevated. Gas-masked faces turned in her direction as their hands fisted the air before going limp. Clenching her teeth, Winkle turned away and glanced at her captor and his master.

“Welcome back, Count,” Hellsing greeted the armored warrior now bowed at her feet.

“Good to be home, Countess,” he replied.

The swordsmen raised his head, and untamable hair parted to reveal a familiar face. Samiel must have shed his outer form like a snake, swapping his appearance for a slightly different one now that his master had lifted restrains Winkle didn’t comprehend. When exactly the transformation occurred, she didn’t know, only that it had. For the first time, Winkle saw the Devil for the man he had once been.

“We-welcome home…m-master,” Seras stuttered, as though unused to seeing the creature that had turned her a monster. Winkle sneered as the idiot girl couldn’t stop fiddling with her upper lip.

Briefly, Winkle wondered how Samiel would greet his underling. Such an odd and apprehensive display would have displeased Herr Major, unless issued from his eccentric physician, as the Doktor’s nervous tendencies were usually the butt of a joke instead. From anyone else, a greeting like that would have been seen as a sign of disloyalty. The Major probably would have ordered Dok to sew their lips shut; for a soldier, it was better not to speak at all than speak uncertainly. To Winkle’s shock, the Devil smiled faintly. His armored hand reach out toward the young vampire, not to choke, but to pat her on the head like a faithful pet.

“Seras…Seras Victoria,” he acknowledged slowly.

The pleased blush that colored Sera’s undead cheeks sickened Winkle. Scowling, she turned away from the reunion, finding the forest of lanced bodies more preferable.

It was the flutter of white from above that caught her attention. At first, Winkle thought the crack in her glasses was distorting the light, but she glanced up and saw pages falling from the sky like snow her eyes widened. Yelping, Winkle ducked out of the way just in time as the mad priest crashed to Earth.

In a show of sparks, metal clanged as steel hit steel. Long sword parried bayonet.

“If it isn’t my old friend,” Samiel mused.

Insulted, Anderson barred his teeth and dove for the demon. In a whirlwind of pages and billowing coat tails, Samiel and the priest dashed after each other quick as lightning down the courtyard, their movements too fast for Winkle to bother following immediately. Still, she felt the tug of Samiel’s will and began to walk across the bloody courtyard and through the forest of lances until a sharp voice rang out.

“You,” Hellsing snapped. Winkle turned to see the woman jabbing a gloved finger in her direction. “With me, now.”

She smiled at the imposing human and let out a snicker until her body began to turn on its own accord. Smirk faltering, Winkle rigidly retrace her steps until she stood before Hellsing. The noblewoman stared impassively, but her bodyguard found humor in the forced walk. Seras grinned-not unlike Samiel-as blood and shadows spilled from her severed stump of an arm and licked the air like flame.

“You’re surprised, ” Hellsing noted. “You may answer to Alucard, but he answers to me, ergo–”

“–Let me guess, I’m under the thumb of not only the Devil but his mistress as well, ja?” Winkle finished boredly.

“Correct,” Hellsing clipped then threatened. “Interrupt me again and I’ll show you just how painful that can be.”

Winkle grinned at the challenge, teeth locking together like puzzle pieces.

Hellsing and her bodyguard seemed to have no intention of leaving the courtyard; rather they watched the battle between man and Devil. Winkle had no interest in the whole affair. If anything, she hoped that the priest would win, not that the Paladin mattered, death was simply preferable than being a slave to Hellsing. However, it seemed that Anderson wasn’t a match for the power of darkness. Although the human’s flesh knitted together with miraculous speed, the Paladin reached his limit; he couldn’t grow back the limb Samiel nearly shot off.

Arm dangling by a few cords of muscle and sinew, Anderson grimaced as the Devil berated him for giving up so easily. Spurred by contempt and righteousness, the Paladin clamped teeth into the meat of his broken forearm and raised the limb, ready for battle. Howling with glee, Samiel went into a frenzy and threw legion after bloody legion at the man who tirelessly slew every soul unleashed his away. Still, it wasn’t enough.

Eventually, the Paladin stopped his attack. Spitting out his arm, Anderson panted and stared hatefully at the grinning demon before him. Winkle knew that look. The priest now realized, just as she had, that he could not beat the Devil. At least, not as he was. In desperation, the man revealed his trump card, a holy splinter-how pathetic. However, Samiel seemed to take the threat quite personally.

She didn’t care for their conversation of monsters and men. Didn’t understand why a single man’s desire to forfeit his humanity bothered Samiel so. Maybe he feared what the priest would become? She had never considered that a monster could be made from the divine; perhaps a beast of God could defeat a dog of the Devil.

’ _Fool_ ,’ Samiel’s voice rang through her head.

Winkle sneered.

“You’re the fool!” she cried, though he seemed not to hear.

Hellsing glanced up at her, then fixated on the priest; “Yes, Anderson is. Only a man can ever hope to beat a monster, after all.”

The human had misunderstood. Brow furrowing, Winkle stared down at the woman curiously, having never heard such a silly thing before. Hellsing didn’t seem like the type to make a joke, but how could such a statement possibly be true? Winkle alone had murdered countless humans, and why not? It was easy. To a vampire, flesh tore like tissue paper. How could a man possibly defeat a monster such as Samiel? The odds were too incredible. Though, she supposed it had happened at least once before. The evidence was battling right before her eyes, for the Hellsing family had somehow managed to ensnare the Devil. Still, such a claim was difficult to believe.

To Samiel’s dismay, Anderson stabbed himself through the breast and sealed his fate. A dark twist of thorns and branches spilled from the wound as the Paladin shed his humanity and became a monster. The paired faced off once again-–a demon of blood now fighting a golem of thorns-–but Samiel didn’t laugh anymore. Not even a smile graced his lips. All the fun had gone out of it for him, but not for Winkle.

Anderson had been right, he hadn’t had the ability to win as a human, but he might as a beast. The two were evenly matched now. Every shot Samiel managed to land the priest returned the favor with a slice. They fought eye for eye and tooth for tooth, even decapitating one another simultaneously in a glorious shower of red and splinters.

In a blur, the headless priest stabbed his arm down and impaled the demon in half to the sternum. Blood fanned from the fissure like flame and Samiel crumpled to his knees. Surprise a light in red eyes, bloody tracks spilled down the vampire’s cheeks like tears. It seemed like Hellsing was wrong. Winkle cackled nastily at the sight, pointing at the Devil on his knees until the pain shot through her.

Howling, Winkle collapsed clutching her chest. Blood oozed between her fingers as she fell to her knees, then pitched to the ground. Hellsing came to stand over her, brows gathered in annoyance. Spectacled eyes scanned her writhing form and rested on the seeping chest.

“Move your arms,” Hellsing snapped.

Winkle’s blood-stained arms shook as they fell away. In a smooth motion, Hellsing drew her sword from its scabbard. For a moment, as the blade arched down, Winkle thought the woman might stab her through. The blessed steel cut through her shirt front with a swish, and then the flat of the blade flicked the cut cloth to the side. Exposed, Winkle tried to sit upright, but a sharp point pressed against her windpipe.

“Down,” Hellsing ordered.

Winkle sunk to the ground with a grimace.

“Go on, do it!” she urged, purposely laying spread eagle on the ground; ready for the final blow, for the mockery to end.

“I give the orders, and I’ll end you when I see fit,” Hellsing reminded curtly. Fierce blue eyes stared at the hole punched through Winkle’s chest cavity then rolled apathetically. Sighing through her nose, the heiress removed her left glove with teeth before pocketed it. Raising the sword once more, she muttered, “Always cleaning up after him.” Hellsing then ran the pad of her thumb along the blade’s edge until a sweeping red line appeared. “Open your mouth.”

At the command, Winkle’s jaw snapped open, and she glared up at the woman. Hand high overhead, Hellsing merely stared down impassively. Fresh blood landed in wet plips, first striking Winkle’s lips and chin, before raining into her open mouth. At the taste, wild eyes dilated behind cracked glasses and rolled back in ecstasy. Inhibitions momentarily gone, Winkle arched off the slick courtyard but was unable rise any further. Razor teeth snapped at empty air, but couldn’t sink into the hand that dangled tantalizingly out of reach. Who would have possibly thought this woman, the master of Samiel, had the sweetest blood imaginable. Tongue lolling out of her mouth, Winkle welcomed every drop with a moan, earning a disgusted grimace from Hellsing.

“That’s enough for the likes of you,” Hellsing clipped and took her hand away. Shuddering, Winkle licked her lips clean like a starved dog, desperately trying claim every drop. How!? How had Samiel not claimed this woman? “Get up you disgusting cretin.”

At the command, Winkle lunged to her feet, only to find the tip of Hellsing’s sword pressed against the hollow of her throat again. She swallowed as the sharp point trailed down her neck and between petite breasts, only to push back the cut shirt to see the wound beneath. Winkle glanced down. The hole was no more. Although spattered with blood, she was whole once again.

With the palm of her hand, Winkle pushed the flat of the blade away and gathered the sliced fabric together, shirt morphing back into place as though it had never been cut. Only afterward did Winkle realized she had commanded the shadows on her own. Surprised eyes glanced at Hellsing, who returned the look with indifference.

“My blood will give you a little distance from his influence, now you won’t be so uselessly dependent on him,” Hellsing said matter-of-factly and turned away. “Both of you, move out.”

“Yes, Sir,” Seras snapped, and turned to follow her mistress.

Winkle glanced back at Samiel as she slowly walked after them. The shared pain had warped her sense of time. Although she still expected to see the Devil and the Holy man squaring off, the priest’s body lay in a tangle of thorns, defeated in the center of the courtyard. While most of the Iscariot troops had fled, a few remained in tear-stained agony near the deceased Paladin’s crumbling corpse. Hellsing had been right. Winkle’s gut clenched at the realization-perhaps only a man could defeat a monster.

In the distance, she could see another fight taking place. The form of a little girl in a white coat faced off against the altered Hellsing butler; the one the Major crooned about after a few glasses of wine, the spy within the dog’s house. Although the girl appeared to be young, her mad red eyes and lopsided were terribly familiar, too old and cruel for such a fresh face-Samiel had taken another form.

Suddenly, it was as though Winkle had been taken back sixty years to the night the old base had been raided by the Hellsing Organization. Blindly grabbing the wrong spectacles, she’d run into the enemy. The memories came in pieces: the girl, the coffin, and the sudden realization that this tiny, little thing was the intruder and then pain-horrible, nauseating pain. Winkle clicked jigsaw teeth together at the bizarre reminiscence, disliking how it came in fragments, as always.

“Perhaps she might be onto something, after all Walt-” Seras began, having caught Winkle staring, but not understanding the reason.

“-Do not speak that name, Walter doesn’t exist anymore,” Hellsing corrected tersely. Seras looked down, worrying a bottom lip between fanged teeth. Glancing at her bodyguard, the human’s face softened; “Alucard is in his element, and we have an invitation to accept.”

“Of course. Right, Sir!” Seras acknowledged with a sharp nod, worry fading back into the calm guise of a killer.

Hellsing stalked across the courtyard with Seras following in her wake. Winkle trailed behind, eyeing the towering zeppelin the noblewoman was walking toward--the _Hindenburg II_. So that was the invitation, the Major had literally opened his doors to them. It felt like a trap to Winkle, but Hellsing boldly marched forward. Together, they walked up the many stairs and into the belly of the ship unhindered, much to Winkle’s surprise. Nostrils flaring, she could still smell her old comrades-–copper, leather polish, grease, and mildew–-but none revealed themselves, that is until they turned the corner.

Günsche stopped them, standing like a sentinel at the far end of the hallway. Blankly, he looked at Seras then to Hellsing; attention focused on the true intruders only. Winkle glared-she wasn’t invisible! Hooking a finger in her cheek, she pulled pale lips wide, tongue wagging in the air at him. Icy eyes didn’t waver. Winkle snorted at him, then quickly looked away to hide burning eyes. Günsche had never been much fun, but being ignored completely was beyond insulting.

Suddenly Günsche’s hand darted to the sign behind him, directing Hellsing to the Major’s location.

“What a loyal dog,” Hellsing remarked.

“You go ahead, Sir,” Seras said, eyes fixed on Günsche.

Hellsing didn’t need to be told twice and walked briskly away with Winkle in tow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I don’t hate Seras. Winkle does. 
> 
> 2\. Hey, thanks to everyone who supported this fic and left comments. I’m very slow at updating (as always) and have been busy this summer. Thank you for your patients. I also haven’t been feeling this story lately and have been working my swtor fic and another Hellsing fic. That’s not to say this fic is getting dropped forever, but it might not be updated for a long while. I have one more chapter near completion, and that’s kinda it…so.


	4. Das Finale

Although Hellsing had been invited onto the _Hindenburg II,_ the Major was not about to let her waltz directly into the command room. As soon as the pair of women turned down the next hallway, row after row of gas-masked faces greeted them--the remaining members of the Letzte Battalion. In their round, bug-eyed lenses, Winkle caught her reflection with Hellsing standing before her, face set in grim determination. Her old comrades' safeties click off in near unison.

“Summon your weapon,” Hellsing demanded, raising her own SIG Sauer.

“It’s on the sh--” Winkle tried to explain.

“--FIRE!” Hellsing ordered, chopping her hand down like an ax.

Spurred by the commands, Winkle blindly reached into the void of herself, clothes and skin parting down her sternum until she grasped the familiar handel buried in her memories, her soul. Yanking hard, the impossibly long Jezail rifle was pulled free with ease, body knitting back into place with tendrils of shadow. Leveling her aim, Winkle squeezed the trigger and closed her eyes.

‘ _With a smile_ ,' Samiel’s voice rang through her head, restating his forgotten order. ‘ _Now, watch_!’

Lips twitching upwards against her will, Winkle opened her eyes and watched the bullet fly. In a blue streak, the magic bullet whizzed directly through the forehead of the first soldier before her, then out the back of his skull and onto the next. While Hellsing might have emptied her clip into the faces of the F.R.E.A.K. vampires before them, it was the cursed bullet that downed the most; arching through the air, making pin-hair turns, the magic projectile punished all it struck without exception. Winkle didn’t notice the blood running down her cheeks until it began to soak into her shirt collar.

“Es tut mir leid,” she murmured over and over with a pained smile, wide eyes watching the bullet exit and enter her old comrades one after the next.

When the last soldier fell, the bullet careened into the wall at the far end of the hallway. Hellsing's head turned sharply to look at her when she didn’t take a step forward, too busy staring at the bodies on the floor.

“Cut the theatrics and move,” Hellsing deadpanned and began wading through the bloody hallway.

For once, Winkle was glad for the order, smile immediately falling into a broken grimace. With the hem of her sleeve, she wiped tears away and followed the damn human.

No more soldiers came to meet them, and as the pair walked deeper into the ship, Winkle began to realize that the Major hadn’t landed so much as crashed the _Hindenburg II_ here. Blood-stained hallways became little more than bent wreckage, walls barely held upright by warped steel gutters. For nearly sixty years, she had run up and down these passages singing in time with the click of jackboots on the metal floor. But now, Winkle heard nothing save for the distant rattle of the draculina and Günsche battling one another. Not once breaking her stride, Hellsing proceeded to the control room.

Barging into the empty chamber, Hellsing barked, “ _MAJOR_!”

Brazen voice echoing, the heiress’ feet crackled over the shards of glass from the wall of broken monitors as she walked forward. The lone chair the center of the room suddenly turned, revealing the short, round Führer.

“Finally~ you’ve arrived, I can truthfully say it’s an honor,” the Major greeted with a wolfish grin.

Hellsing greeted him in return by raising her pistol and firing at his head. Bullets panged and ricocheted, striking the shimming field around his seated figure before harmlessly deflecting. The Major’s smile grew with each wayward shot. The noblewoman emptied her clip, loaded another and snarled at Winkle.

“Fire, damn you!” Helling commanded.

Averting her eyes from her Führer, Winkle raised the rifle and pulled the trigger. She heard the magic bullet ping away and smash into the face of another monitor. As the glass fell and shattered to the floor, the Major's laughter sounded softly, mockingly.

“It’s ineffective, I’m sorry to say. Like your tears, the bullets will simply fall away,” he assured with a grin.

Hellsing gritted her teeth. Loading another cartridge into her pistol, she fired, every step forward punctuated by another squeeze of the trigger until she stood before the Major. The shield still glimmered around him, yet Hellsing proudly drew her sword and stabbed the blade deep into the barrier, only to have its end redirected within the glittering matrix and pointed back out at her, like a parlor trick in a house of mirrors. Lips pursing, she yanked the weapon out.

“I think you’ve made your point,” the  Major cooed and laced his fingers together. “Perhaps you should simply sit tight, it’s going to be marvelous. Very soon there will be a glorious show, and I plan to sit alone--well.” He paused. Golden eyes glanced at Winkle. “The extra company can be overlooked. By the way, nice to see you again, Obersturmführer,” the Major absently greeted with a slight raise of his hand before turning back to his true guest. “I imagine you and your hound have taken pleasure in parading her around, using my own against me just as I anticipated, how deliciously repugnant,” he directed at Hellsing, and Winkle’s gut knotted at the dismissal. Sweeping out his arms, the Major continued grandly. “Now, let us go then, you and I, when the dawn is spread out against the sky, like a patient etherized upon a table, and watch the finale together~.”

"You madman!” Hellsing cried.

“Oh, come now. Just enjoy the show, this particular performance is truly exquisite, so rare it’s only shown a century at a time. In fact, it was 1898 when this performance last occurred,” the Major explained and removed a remote from his breast pocket.

He pressed a button and the monitors flickered to life, spitting sparks into the air. Gradually, the distorted face of a little girl came into focus on the shattered screens--Samiel, Alucard. There was no sound, only the mad, grinning face of the blood-drenched child laughing maniacally in static silence.  

“Nosferatu Alucard is about to be completely erased!” the Major nearly sang, lips hitching up.

For the first time, Winkle saw something like fear cross Hellsing’s face.

“Wh-what?!” The noblewoman snapped, eyes widening as she gazed at the crazed girl on the monitors.

Fingers pressed another button. Wires fizzed. Sparks lit the air. Ozone burned. The girl vanished and a young boy now appeared on the screens, Schrödinger. The boy stood high on the bell tower of St. James, smiling cruelly as he watched the carnage below.

It was then Winkle remembered the little rhythm the Major used to utter to the boy. When the tiny Warrant Officer would coyly curl by the Führer's feet, the Major would smile, pet the child’s pointed ears, and murmur a little ditty about bells. She’d never paid much mind. The talk of oranges, lemons, and musing of churches meant nothing, but the ending of the poem came to her suddenly as Schrödinger raised the knife.

“Here comes a candle to light you to bed, and here comes a chopper to chop off your head. Chip chop, chip chop the last man is dead,” Winkle recited in shock, jaw going slack.

Schrödinger pressed the knife to his soft throat. Was this...what this what they had been working toward all these years? Not world domination, not eternal war, not hell on Earth--

“Someone's getting the idea,” the Major congratulated with a nod.

Grinning ferally, the boy plunged the blade deep and blood spurted from the smiling slice in his throat. The nearly headless body toppled off the church tower and into the river of red below. In the frothing crimson, Schrödinger’s young, smirking face was swallowed whole.

Click. The monitors fizzled and changed back to Samiel. Blood and shadow whipped around her like fire as she soundless berated the Hellsing butler, just as she had Anderson not long ago. Then, as though struck by an invisible force, the wavering liquid stilled.

Samiel’s head violently twitched once, demon eyes growing round and dilated with shock before dimming. Behind her, plasma and darkness folded in on itself and collapsed like a wave then moved no more. Seemingly lost, Samiel wavered on her feet. Slowly, as though seeing it for the first time, she turned to look at the rising sun and reached out a small hand to brush its streaming light.

A tiny eye appeared in the center of Samiel’s palm, then two, four, eight until they were beyond count. Like sores, the eyes spread across the Devil’s little body until her essence began to unravel. The white of her coat and jet-black hair ran together until Samiel was scarcely more than an humanoid outline of congealing ooze and staring souls. The pressure of Devil, like a dog’s foul breath constantly breathing down her neck, began to dissipate until Winkle could barely feel a presence at all.  

“Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow,” the Major quoted with a vicious smile.

Eyes becoming slivers. Samiel's raised hand seemed to wave farewell to the small butler and then the countless apertures began to shut in earnest.

“What is this? What is’ going on,” Hellsing demanded, motioning to the screens as the girl displayed there began to morph into the shape of a fading man. “What have you done!?”

“Nothing~,” the Major assured. “He has merely absorbed the life of Warrant Officer Schrödinger. As his namesake suggests, the boy carries the self-observing nature of Schrödinger cat’s: both everywhere and nowhere, alive and not, so long as he can recognize himself. But with Schrödinger dissolved into millions of minds and lives, he can longer find himself and in this case...what will happen? By now, he is no longer present anywhere, not alive, but also not dead.” The Major smiled and leaned forward in his seat. Hellsing regarded him with barely bridled rage as he continued, “Alucard is now nothing more than a set of imaginary numbers.”

In pale horror, Hellsing turned to watch the screen. The single, large eye in the center of Samiel’s chest began to close as the sun rose over the horizon.

“Alucard!” Hellsing cried, fist clenched. “Don’t close your eyes! Open your eyes! Alucard! This is an order, _Alucard_!”

But for once, the noblewoman's commands could not be heeded. Gradually, Winkle’s shock began to be replaced by a sharp smile. Schrödinger's ultimate sacrifice had not been in vain. By now, Samiel was little more than a specter, body nearly translucent in the morning light, a shadow of his former self! And although she belonged to the Devil, Winkle could no longer feel his grip.

“ _Don’t disappear_!” Hellsing screamed in hoarse desperation at the screens.

There was no sound, but the slow movements of Samiel’s lips could be read, “No, this is farewell, my Master Integra.”

The room shook and steel groaned. The wall of monitors wavered before collapsing to the ground in a cascade of glass. Hellsing was unmoved by the danger. Shoulders hunched in anger, she took deep, ragged breaths and stared at the broken shards, as if the visage of her servant was still lit here.  

“Alucard!” Hellsing roared at the sparking, smoking machines.

“I did nothing on my part, but everything...well, _nearly_ everything that was him has disappeared,” the Major said and spared Winkle a hateful glimpse before returning to Hellsing.

At the look, Winkle swallowed thickly. The way his golden eyes had burned was frightening. The Major had never been so cross with her before and the fright it caused her made her back away. The zeppelin rocked beneath them then, and flames started to spout between the metal struts that once held the monitors.

Hellsing turned to glare at the little man as the Major fervently continued,“I have been living for the sake of this day, I have been living for the sake of this moment. In this war of mine that I kept on losing, for the first time, I won.”

Winkle listened, eyes shifting between Hellsing and the Major as she quietly stepped back. Without the constant brush of Samiel within her mind, body, and soul, she came to the conclusion the Major had only moments before: she didn’t belong here. In fact, her continued existence, the enigma of her survival so close to his victory, only seemed to anger the Führer, which pained Winkle far more than Günche’s silent rejection ever could.

“You!” Hellsing seethed at the seated figure, fists shaking, “Damn you!”

“Is that so?” the Major asked conversationally, “But isn’t this a good thing?Isn't this a... _victory_?”

At the question, the entire entrance wall and all burst open. Flame rolled in thick tongues into the command room, the explosion carrying with it the outline of a young woman at its center. Seras. If the draculina was here, that meant Günch was certainly dead too. The knowledge felt like a stone in the pit of her stomach.

The vampire landed before her master, anti-tank rifle in hand. Unable to retreat any further, Winkle stood away from them, feeling the heat of the fire lick her back. She had no place in this fight. Being here to be used by the enemy and disowned by her old comrades was a punishment and nothing more. She had dared to demand freedom the Devil and cruelly he had granted the request for amusement sake. Yet, Samiel had evaporated with the dawn, so why did the cruelty continue on?

“Just as I thought,” the Major mused, gaze falling on Seras, “ Ah~ Look who’s here! It’s a pleasure to meet you, young lady. It’s so obvious, isn’t it? It is the two of you who will kill me...it is not Alucard who defeats me, but it is I who defeat Alucard,” he continued, voice rising with tribulation as he stood from his chair. “Alucard was my arch enemy, and because I am your arch enemy now…” he trailed off.

“Seras, finish him.” Hellsing ground out.

“I’m standing right here, right here!” the Major urged, throwing his arms wide as the draculina took aim, “Right here!”

Winkle ground her teeth until her mouth bled, wanting desperately to step between her Führer and draculina. But the look he had given her made her knees buckle, too frightened to move toward him.

“Search and destroy!” The noblewoman ordered.

A hail of bullets struck the glass, only to rain away as before. The Major’s face ticked, cursing Dok the shield’s maker. Seras seems to share his sentiments, for the vampire thrust out her liquid arm and began to conjure a wicked mass of steel from blood and will. Coagulating into place, the darkness pouring out of Seras held the massive gun over her head with ease. The Major’s eyes gleamed madly at the sight.

“An Acht Acht MM!” he praised, “Fantastic choice! I love it!”

The anti-aircraft gun went off with a fiery roar. Thrown to the ground by the shockwave of the impact, Winkle curled and wrapped arms over her head. The _Hindenburg II_ shook and groaned as the interior of the room began to crash down around them from the explosive force. When the room started to settle, Winkle scrambled to her feet, eyes frantically darting about.

“Major!” Winkle cried, turning around blindly in the dust and smoke, searching in vain for the man.

Air clearing, Hellsing started picking through the wreckage too with stern determination.

“ _You_ , do not interfere!” the human snapped at Winkle as she scanned the room, searching for the wounded Führer. At the command, Winkle’s feet planted themselves to the floor. “This is the end, Major!”

“No, not quite,” he corrected calmly unseen.

As the smoke thinned, Winkle saw the small man laying in a twist of steel and wires. At first, she thought the metal struts he’d crashed into had pierced half the Fϋhrer's body, but as she looked on, Winkle began to realize that the metal wasn’t impaling, but rather extruding from him. Her saucer-round eyes stared at the chubby, broken body in disbelief.

“So this is what you are,” Hellsing said, regarding him with disgust.

“Yes, this is what I am,” the Major acknowledged as black ooze bubbled past his lips.

“A-a machine!” Seras gasped.

Golden eyes narrowed at her. “What an impolite thing to say, young lady. I am absolutely human.”

“A bloody abomination more like it, you’re nothing but a monster!” Hellsing spat.

“That’s not true, I am human," the Major insisted seriously. “There is only one quality that makes humans truly human, and that is their will. Pathetic monsters like Alucard-- _don’t put me on the same level with such a weakling_!” he snarled suddenly, inky spittle staining his lapel. “For them, blood is merely the currency of the soul, embodiments of greed, they cannot live without constantly taking it from others!”

He paused. Jaw shuddering, the Major’s head abruptly jerked to the side before correcting itself slowly to the grind of gears. For a brief moment, she caught a glimpse of the intricate circuitry wired inside the Fϋhrer's skull.  The faint outline of galvanized bones gleamed under bundles of frayed, hair-thin wires.

Winkle was at a lost. Gawking at the little man, a shadow of doubt flickered in her for the first time. Monsters like Alucard, the Major had cursed with contempt, but then what was Millennium? The army he led had been slavishly cast in the Devil’s image by his express order. In long-winded speeches, he had praised his troops’ bestial nature, proclaiming that they were the living weapons of war. Yet, if Samiel was  truly nothing but a pathetic monster in the Major’s eyes, what was she? The memory of that quick, hateful look came to mind again. Did he hold the same detestation toward all the loyal soldiers in the Letzte Bataillon? No, impossible.

“As long as my will exists," the Major continued, “No matter if I am a merely a brain floating in a jar, or a collection of memory circuits within a computer, I am still human. A human being with a living heart, soul, and will! Even when _he_ takes the shape of a smiling little girl, or a sentimental war veteran, he is _nothing_ but a monster. Therefore, I  truly _detest_ him. I will _never_ accept vampire Alucard. He is a monster who looks human, while am I not a human who looks like a monster? _I am myself_!”

In shock, Winkle  crumbled to her knees. This wasn’t the first time the Major’s words had brought the sting of tears to her eyes, but for once, they were not in adoration. The words carried such a horrible, damning weight, Winkle could only bow to them, crushed. The Major...had lied.

On shaky legs, the Fϋhrer began to stand. Metal gritted and groaned as he did so and midnight oil slicking his side. Grinning, he held out his arms, putting all that he was--part man, part machine--on display and preached. “I am different than you. Everything in this world is about conflict because this is the world that humans are born into...so let us have a war.”

Hellsing removed her coat without hesitation and threw it to the ground in a flourish. Without the billowing fabric, she lost some of her mystery. Hellsing was utterly and plainly human. True, the holsters at her side and sword at her hip were deadly decorations, but the noblewoman looked fragile. Yet, her face was fierce and unmoving, although forged from iron. And as Winkle watched, Hellsing’s words wormed their way into her mind: only a human could beat a monster.

The pair faced one another. There was a pause, then on some silent command both Hellsing and Major raised their pistols. The shootout began in sharp staccato. Hellsing calmly sidestepped, while Major fired his Luger after her rapidly. Bullets whizzed and panged, striking the metal skeleton framing the interior of the command room.

In a spray of red, Hellsing’s head suddenly jerked back to the right. The woman barely flinched, head snapping back toward the Fϋhrer in determination as blood ran from the burst eyeball like tears. At the sight, a sharp, crazed grin flashed across Winkle’s face. The Major had shot the Devil’s mistress! With the beast’s disappearance, his keeper’s death that meant Millennium might truly destroy the Hellsing--

_BANG!_

The pair still faced one another, guns drawn. Time seemed to still, as though the two would be locked in this duel forever. Then Winkle’s smile faltered as the Führer tipped backward, black blood spurting from the hole in the center of his forehead.

“No! NO!” Winkle shrieked, fingers ripping at her hair as the little man arched back and hit the ground.

“I...finally hit something,” the Major said with a wide smile, gun still in his hand. “It really has been...a...great war.”

“Die!”Hellsing raged, reloading the SIG-Sauer only to empty the clip into the Fϋhrer's head. “People like you just need to die!”

“MAJOR!” Winkle screamed, running to his side.

Feet suddenly free, she sprinted to the small body, stumbling over the wreckage several times until she tripped and fell. Hellsing ignored her struggling and stood over the fallen Fϋhrer. After all, Winkle hadn’t the ability to interfere now.

Storing her pistol away, Hellsing muttered contemptuously, “Is this really what you call a good war, Major? This cannot even be regarded as a war at all! Being on the verge of death for sixty years, you are now merely breathing your last breath. You _need_ to die, this is absolutely what you deserve. “

Winkle barely registered the awful words as she scrambled over the rubble to the Fϋhrer's side. For a silent moment, she gazed at the manic grin still stretched across his lips until tears blinded her. No, it couldn’t end like this. Without a leader, a glorious war to work toward, and the sweet promise of victory, what was there?

“Major, bitte. Bitte Major,” Winkle moaned in grief, face pressed to his cold, hard hand. “Stirb nicht bitte...was werde ich tun?”

Major did not stir. Bowed on the floor, gripping his lifeless hand in her own, Winkle could only cry. Sucking air through razor teeth, her shoulders trembled with every heaving sob. Red tears bled dark blotches onto his white glove. Beside her, a hard-soled shoe tapped against the ruined floor.

“Get up this instant,” Hellsing deadpanned. “You will not shed a _single_ tear over his pathetic corpse.”

“Go to Hell!” Winkle turned and seethed, teeth bared viciously. Yet, though bloody tears welled in her eyes, they could not fall.

“I’ve seen enough of it for the day.” Hellsing clipped, glancing to the fallen Führer before glaring down at her.“Seras, grab the leftovers and take us out.”

Immediately, the draculina shot forward and snagged Winkle by the throat from behind, arm wrapping about her neck in an unforgiving headlock. Forced to her feet, Winkle was drug away from the Fϋhrer’s side. She struggled until Seras’ arm flexed against her neck, starting to crush her vertebrae with a series of sick snaps. It was only after Winkle went limp with a gurgling hiss that Hellsing came toward Seras' other side, and the liquid tendrils pouring from the draculina’s severed arm gently coiled around the noblewoman’s waist.

Mistress tucked to one side and Winkle gagged on the other, Seras leaped upward and away on powerful legs, propelling them all out of the burning _Hindenburg II_. And as she was choked and whisked away into the night, the Devil’s bitch pulling her out of the reach of the fiery explosion, Winkle found herself wishing that she too had been consumed in the flames with the little Fϋhrer and his dreams of war and triumph.

 

* * *

 

 

The whirlwind trip across the burning city ended when Winkle was whipped to the ground. She skidded sideways across the slick mud of the lawn before rolling to her knees. Glancing up, the crumbling ruin that was the Hellsing manor greeted her. The Major had long since shown to all of Millennium this location day in and day out on his many monitors, the dog’s house--oh, Major! Winkle clutched her aching chest expecting to feel it punctured again, but there was no hole, no blood, just pain. Horrible, miserable pain. The thought of little Fϋhrer and his lifeless, mangled body grinning even in death made wetness tracked down her cheeks.

Removing her glasses, Winkle quickly wiped away the tears. They’d started falling again as soon as they’d been spirited away into the night. She suspected it had been from the choke hold, but seeing the blood stain her fingertips, Winkle realized she could honestly mourn once more for her late leader. Hellsing had said she couldn’t cry over his corpse, but not the beloved memory of Major. Not wanting the loophole to be discovered, Winkle bit her lip and stifled her tears.

“Look at me,” Hellsing commanded.

Winkle replaced her glasses before turning her head rigidly and glared at the woman who had killed her Fϋhrer.  

“ _You_...you murdered him,” she accused.

“Quite,” the noblewoman agreed.

“I’ll kill you,” Winkle promised. “I’ll ruin you!”

“Seras,” Hellsing called.

A streak of black and red came rushing toward her, and Winkle toppled over as a boot struck the side of her jaw. Disorientated, she hit the ground again, only to have her face smashed into the mud with a squelch as the draculina stomped down on the back of her head. Seras kept her pinned as she writhed and raked long claw-marks in the lawn.

“Enough,” Hellsing commanded.

The boot lifted away, and Winkle’s head shot up with a gasp as she spat out gravel and blades of grass. Struggling to her hands and knees, she looked up to see the draculina still at her side, leg raised and bent back like a rugby player.

“Don’t--!” Winkle tried to cry.

And Seras punted her in the ribs with a crack. Winkle could only wheeze as she collapsed onto her back.

“Now,” Hellsing began,  walking to her side sword drawn. “You are going to tell me everything I want to know.”

Winkle rasped, “Are you going to order or beat it out of me?”

“I fancy the latter, but the first is faster, now tell me, why are you here?” Hellsing questioned sharply.

“Because he let me out,” Winkle replied, truth spilling from her lips.

“Why?”

“I asked for it. I demanded that the Devil let me go, and in his infinite cruelty he did! He did, and now I’m stuck here with you!”

“Where is he?”

“How should I know!?” Winkle fumed, “Are you not his keeper!? Whistle for your dog and see if he’ll come running!”

“You are a familiar, you are connected to him, you must sense him,” Hellsing pressed unwaveringly, brows furrowing.

“Not even a tiny bit!” Winkle spat with mad glee, flashing a vile smile. “I was there too you know, Herr Major won. I saw the whole thing!”

“He’s dead,” Hellsing reminded flatly.

“And so is your dog! Evaporated just like dew in the morning sun! Pitiful!”

The sword glinted as Hellsing raised it enough to pressed the point over her heart as a reminder that she ought to watch her tongue, but Winkle didn’t care.

“Tell me where he is!” Helling ordered.

“I don’t know! I--Ha-ha!” Winkle stopped and cackled suddenly. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know! _I don’t know_ ~!” She sang throwing hands into the air in triumph, “I don’t know, I don’t know and there’s nothing you can do about it~!”

Too distracted by her sudden revelry, Winkle missed Hellsing removing the swordpoint and giving a nod to Seras. Only when the draculina sent another sharp kick to her side did Winkle stop her laughter, emitting a pained groan instead.

Hellsing turned to spare her bodyguard a serious look and asked, “Seras, can you?”

The draculina paused, then shook her head sadly.

“No, Sir. I don’t feel master anywhere. She smells like him...but it’s not quite the same.”

“Then where is the bastard?”Hellsing muttered and sighed through her nose.

Winkle let out a laugh, “He went poof, Samiel is everywhere and nowhere now--just as the Major said.”

“Seras,” Hellsing ordered again. The draculina sent another bone-breaking kick to Winkle’s ribs and when she let out a rattling gasp the noblewoman snipped. “Better.”

Standing over Winkle, Seras looked at her mistress and asked, “What are we going to do?”

“We’ll do what the Hellsing Organization has always done and clean house,” Hellsing answered with calm confidence, eyes narrowing at Wrinkle’s prone form before continuing. “And we can’t have _you_ getting underfoot. Seras, take her to the crypt, put her in a coffin and seal it shut. We can deal with the relics of war later, England comes first.”

The draculina’s eye burned red and she snapped, “Right, Sir!”

Winkle tried to squirm away and crawled to her feet, but Seras was faster. Grabbing a fist full of long black hair, the draculina yanked her back down into the dirt, then dragged Winkle kicking and screaming all the way into the crumbling crypt beneath the Hellsing Manor by her long mane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote folks. Awful place to stop right? But I have lost the passion for this story and don't know when it's going to be updated again. Probably not for a long time. Sorry, sorry.
> 
> Bonus points if you get all of Major's references without look'em up. He's such an asshole, I love him.


End file.
